


Sweet Blooded and I'm Stranded

by countessrivers



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Desk Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Porn with long interior monologues, The Master (among many many other things) might have abandonment issues, crossing your own timeline is fine if it's for sex, porn with minor plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:07:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26966413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessrivers/pseuds/countessrivers
Summary: The Master isn’t doing anything as pathetic as avoiding the Doctor. Because that would be pathetic.And he’s not.(Not pathetic. Not avoiding the Doctor.)***The Master (who is doing fine, and doesn't need the Doctor anyway) stumbles back across his own timeline and runs into a Tenth Doctor who still believes he's dead.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/The Master (Simm), The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 95





	Sweet Blooded and I'm Stranded

**Author's Note:**

> I had a craving for Ten and Silver-beardy Simm!Master and that's really all the explanation I have. And while the beard doesn't come up much, you can still picture it. 
> 
> And then inevitably emotions happened because Silver-beardy Simm!Master is ahead of this Doctor, one who treated him and wanted him in a way that was quite different from the others, and combined with him being stuck on Gallifrey post EoT, plus everything else, it proved interesting to examine (as messy and contradictory as his and Missy's characterisation in that regard is). 
> 
> Also there's porn.

The Master isn’t doing anything as pathetic as _a_ _voiding_ the Doctor. Because that would be pathetic.

And he’s not.

(Not pathetic. Not avoiding the Doctor.)

He is, in fact, keeping a wary eye on him, skirting the edges of his little adventures. He watches the Doctor, the one with an even younger face than Doe-eyes, then later, with a face much older, swan around, trailed after by yet another revolving line of pets. Never in person, never meddling or showing his face, just watching. He doesn’t seek the Doctor out, just makes sure to stay roughly aware of where he is and what he’s up to as he goes about his own business.

The Master’s simply choosing not to interact. He has his own life, his own goals. He doesn’t _need_ the Doctor.

Which is just as well, because it’s clear he’s been abandoned. Again.

Left alone to rot on Gallifrey, while the Doctor, safe and sound on Earth and newly regenerated, had stood up, dusted himself off, and walked away, never looking back, all while the Master and the rest of them were stuck in hell.

Which really shouldn’t surprise him, as that’s all the Doctor has ever done, but still, he’d expected a bit more. More fool him then.

Not that he’d really expected much of anything at the time. He’d been pulled off Rassilon just as his regeneration had started, his own body giving up its last. He’d laughed until darkness had taken him, tasting blood and artron in his mouth, choking on it as he hung limply in the guards’ hold, wondering which would kill him first – his damaged body tearing him apart, or the Doctor burning them all.

But then he’d felt it, the moment the Doctor changed things, the moment he saved Gallifrey, awakened from his healing coma by the seismic shift that no one else seemed to feel.

Because that’s not how it went. The universe might have ticked on afterwards, with Gallifrey ultimately safe and sound and contained in its little pocket universe, but the Master knows that’s not how it went. He knows better.

He’d seen it, scorched into the Doctor’s memories. The burning and the screaming and the dying, followed by the awful silence.

He’d felt it. The aching emptiness and loneliness of being the last ones left.

They’d both felt it, and the Master had seen first-hand what it had done to the Doctor. He’s not going to forget, even if the rest of the universe, the Doctor included, seemed ready to do so.

And so, he’d lived. They’d all lived. Which hadn’t been a problem, per se, just unexpected. Because the Master hadn’t really expected to survive. All he had been thinking about was revenge, about tearing Rassilon apart, about getting him away from-

He thought he’d be dead, no backup plan this time, but he’d lived. And living, unfortunately, meant a jail cell, just as soon as his newly repaired body was recovered enough to move. It had been clear the Council had no idea what to do with him, and in lieu of executing him right then and there, they’d imprisoned him instead. He’d been pardoned for his numerous crimes following his resurrection, back when they needed him for the war, but since then he’d managed to rack up quite a few more charges, with desertion and the assassination of the President at the top of the list.

Actually, ‘murder of the President’ was probably a better way to put it. His motivations had been purely personal.

He’d escaped, eventually, and was off-planet in a brand new TARDIS before they’d even known he was gone. That, however, didn’t change the fact that that he’d been left there to begin with. Abandoned. Not a single word, even though the Doctor had to have _known_ …

The Master lets it get to him more than he should, and it’s infuriating, but he can’t help it, which is why he’s pointedly keeping a carefully precise distance between himself and the Doctor as he goes about his life. And if there’s something lacking whenever he conquers a planet, or incites a war, or creates something beyond what the primitive minds around him can understand or appreciate, it’s an acceptable loss.

If the Doctor is so happy to be rid of him, let him be so. Let him pick up and then destroy little human place holder after little human place holder if he likes. The Doctor can be the one to come crawling back, begging for his help, his attention.

* * *

He’s on the planet Mednit, at some point during the latter half of the 32nd century, wandering the markets of the capital Sha in search of repair parts when he feels him.

The Doctor.

He’s close, and the Master doesn’t even contemplate leaving because that would be something far too close to retreat for his liking. Also, he has a shopping list that needs completing, not to mention the fact that he’s been a little bored of late, and even if he’s not going to get involved, the presence of the Doctor almost always spells trouble, and if there’s one thing the Master is good at, it’s taking advantage of trouble.

It’s only when he spots a familiar coif of hair almost a head above the rest of the mingling crowd that he realises what the uncomfortable feeling in his gut is. It’s the kind of feeling one gets when they cross over their own timeline, and he’s had it since the moment he stepped out of his TARDIS.

But instead of that pushing him to leave, the knowledge just makes him want to stay more.

What does he care about the established laws of time and interference?

Fuck them and fuck the Time Lords.

He picks his way closer to the centre of the square where he can see the Doctor, careful not to draw attention to himself. He stops at a stall, picking up what looks like a data chip and pretending to consider it while he keeps an eye on the Doctor and the red-headed human woman he’s with.

“Alright, Spaceman. Two hours, yeah?”

“Right back here in two hours. Are you sure you’re happy going off on your own? I can come with you. I really don’t mind.”

“Nah, it’s fine. You have TARDIS parts to shop for, and I have an alien church to tour. But try not to get into any trouble, I know what you’re like.”

The human pats the Doctor on the arm before turning to leave, and it’s only as she does so that the Master recognises her.

The human who hadn’t changed. The one who had called.

The _best friend_.

It takes a somewhat embarrassing amount of self-control to stop from crushing the data chip in his hand to pieces. The woman wanders off, and for a moment the Master is tempted to go after her. He doesn’t though, instead catching and squashing the impulse because it would be a waste of time. She doesn’t matter. None of them matter. And it’s just as well he does, because after waving her off, the Doctor turns towards him. He doesn’t appear to spot him, but he’s facing him all the same. The Master can see him, see his face.

Memories of the Doctor, of this Doctor’s face the last time they met flash through his head. There had been anger, sure, maybe a little disgust at times, but even they hadn’t been able to mask the desperation, the want, the neediness that had seeped out with every word, every look.

He’d basically asked him to run away with him. Dressed it up in pretty, sentimental, aloof language, yes, but that’s really what he had been asking.

And he is the Master, he will not be caged, not by anyone, but the fact that the Doctor had wanted him with him so badly, the fact that it was exactly what they used to talk about doing when they were young – seeing the universe, every corner of it, together – it had tripped him up. Trapped the words, the automatic refusal in his throat.

Even now, just to think about it, to think about the way the Doctor had looked at him.

He wants-

He wants the Doctor to look at him like that again.

The Doctor turns his back, walking away to begin his own perusal of the market stalls, and in that second, the Master makes up his mind.

He slips the data chip he’d been holding into his pocket, purely because he can, and follows the Doctor. It’s easy to get close to him, almost embarrassingly, insultingly so, and it baffles him sometimes, thinking about how the Doctor has managed to live so long with so few self-preservation instincts. How easy it would be to walk up and slide a knife into his back. Anyone could do it.

But instead of doing that, the Master simply steps up behind him, still unnoticed amongst the pressing, bustling crowd.

“Fancy running into you here.”

He’d half been expecting a flail, or maybe a jump, but instead the Doctor freezes at the sound of his voice, spine going rigid and head jerking up. The Master steps in closer, so that the Doctor is sure to feel his breath on the back of his neck.

“Miss me.”

The Doctor turns, and it’s disbelief more than anything that’s splashed across his face. He stares at the Master like he cannot believe his eyes.

“No,” he says. “You can’t…you can’t be here. You’re- You’re-”

“Dead? Obviously not.”

The Doctor shakes his head, reaching out a hand to brush against his jacket, like he’s checking for solidity, half expecting, perhaps, that the Master will dissipate like smoke at the touch.

He wonders idly if the Doctor has imagined or hallucinated conversations with him before. Maybe he’s thinking this is a particularly vivid dream. He likes the idea, if it’s true. The Doctor being haunted by him. Missing him that badly.

The Doctor’s hand fists in his coat, seemingly now assured of its realness. He feels too the brush of the Doctor’s mind against his, the ever-familiar hum that he knows almost as well as his own, seeking reassurance not just of his existence, but of his identity. Making sure it’s really him.

“What are you-” The Doctor cuts himself off, and looks around the market, at the crowds surrounding them, before turning back to him, something harder behind his eyes now. “What are you doing here? What have you done?”

The Master can hear that thrilling layer of steel in his voice, and he looks down to see the Doctor’s hand tighten in the fabric of his jacket.

“How about we take this somewhere more private? Talk it out, just us.” He casts a deliberate look at the clueless throngs around them, and the threat is heard loud and clear, if the Doctor’s narrowing eyes are any indication.

“Fine.”

The Doctor lets go of him, and the Master slides an arm around his waist, hand deliberately settling a little lower than is probably appropriate. He keeps his hand on the Doctor’s back, using it to steer them through the crowd. He’s not sure what the Doctor’s face is doing, but it can’t be anything too alarming as no one seems to be giving them a second glance.

He doesn’t actually have anywhere in mind, nor, of course, is he currently up to anything the Doctor would take particular offence to, at least not on this planet. But the Doctor doesn’t need to know that.

He’s deciding whether he should take the Doctor to his TARDIS or somewhere else when the man in question stops in his tracks.

“No,” the Doctor cuts him off before he can ask what he’s doing. He grabs the hand on his back and uses it to pull the Master along instead, dragging him towards the opposite corner of the square.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” he asks, more intrigued at where the Doctor might be taking him than he is annoyed.

“You said we should talk in private? Fine. But I’m not letting you walk me right into whatever trap you’ve got set up. We’re going somewhere else.”

Again, there’s no trap – not that he couldn’t come up with one on the fly if he wanted to – but it’s nice to see that the Doctor might be learning at little. A healthy level of paranoia never hurt anyone. At least not much. Especially if you were proactive about it.

He allows the Doctor to pull him along. The other Time Lord pauses briefly at the edge of the square, looking around, presumably trying to spot if they’re being followed, or for any hint of whatever it is he thinks the Master is up to. Apparently satisfied, he drags the Master through the front door of the closest building. He keeps looking around as they cross the building’s atrium, and the Master gets the impression that the Doctor is also making this up as he goes, looking for somewhere to go that’s random enough for him to be confident that the Master isn’t in fact a step ahead of him.

The Doctor eventually hustles him into a room, turning to lock the door behind them. The Master is on him immediately, crowding him back against the wood the moment he turns around. He pins his forearms to the door, stepping in close so that they’re almost flush. As always, it’s a little annoying to have to look up at the Doctor, but it’s hardly the worst view in the universe.

“Alright.” The Master feels the Doctor’s arms flex beneath his hands, testing the hold, but not struggling just yet. “We’re here, we’re alone, so whatever it is you want, whatever it is you’re planning, please Master, just-”

“Ooo,” the Master interrupts, letting his eyes drift shut, unable to help himself. “Say it again.”

“What?”

“Say it again, Doctor.”

The Doctor sighs, shifting against the door at his like he’s considering trying to break away. The Master tightens his grip in response. “Say it again _._ ”

He waits.

“Master.” More annoyance in his tone this time, but still just as good.

“Again.”

“Master. Can we please just-”

He leans in, breathing in deep as his eyes open to flick between the Doctor’s eyes, his mouth, and his throat as he swallows. He can feel his breath on his face, the way his arms are still shifting under his hands.

“Again.”

“Master.”

It never sounds quite as good coming from anyone else.

The Doctor makes a soft, slightly startled noise when he kisses him. The Master can hear his nails scraping against the door, and there’s nowhere for him to go, but to his delight, the Doctor doesn’t really seem inclined to go anywhere, his mouth opening easily to the Master’s tongue.

He tilts his head, all the better to get closer, to press the Doctor further back. Part of him waits for the Doctor to bite, to feel teeth sinking into his tongue or even his lip, followed by the taste of blood. He wouldn’t mind if he did, but the way the Doctor leans into it, leans towards him as he lets him in is even better.

The Doctor blinks at him in a slight daze when he pulls back. His mouth is red and wet, and for a moment there is nothing that the Master wants more than to lean back in and kiss him again. Maybe _he’ll_ do the biting, then share the taste of blood between them.

“What do you want?” the Doctor asks, distracting him from the thought.

The Master thinks about how to answer that, but is distracted again when his eyes fix on the freckles dotted across the Doctor’s nose and the high points of his cheeks. He doesn’t think they were as prominent, the last time he’d been close enough to look. Back when he’d had the Doctor trapped and bound and at his mercy.

Good times, however short-lived they might have been. But the now might be even better because the Doctor, for once, doesn’t seem interested in running, and there’s no one else here, meaning the Master doesn’t have to worry about interruptions.

“Master?”

The Master hums vaguely in response, his eyes trailing down over the Doctor’s face, his neck where he imagines he can see his pulse, the beating of his hearts. He looks lower, and notices that the Doctor has missed a button on his shirt, revealing the slightest glimpse of skin beneath the layers of cloth.

“ _Master._ ”

“What?” His eyes snap back up to the Doctor’s face to find him looking back, eyes big and wide. He slides his hands down to encircle the Doctor’s wrists, watching as he visibly tries to rearrange his face into something a bit more stern and demanding. He doesn’t quite manage it, but the attempt is amusing, and if the narrowing eyes and the tension in the Doctor’s body is just the tiniest bit attractive, well, that’s his business.

“What do you want?”

“Honestly, I’m having trouble deciding.”

He is having trouble. He wants to sink his teeth into the pale stretch of neck in front of him, but he also wants to push the Doctor to his knees. Strip him, bend him over the desk near the window, maybe, or pull him over to the ornately patterned settee in the corner.

As long as the Master can put his hands on him. And as long as the Doctor is looking at him.

“Why are you here? _How_ are you here?” The Doctor finally starts properly pulling against the Master grip. He lets him, releasing his hold, but keeping him backed up against the door.

The Doctor stares back at him, the already thin mask of anger and concern he’d pulled on slipping away, leaving in its place something more forlorn. Because of course, the last the Doctor, this Doctor at least, had seen him, he’d been dying in his arms. There’d been a lot of pleading and crying and clinging, which, along with the knowledge that he’d been denying the Doctor something he wanted, and the knowledge that he would remain free of the Doctor’s cage, even if he never managed to bring himself back, had almost made the pain of bleeding out while simultaneously holding back a regeneration bearable. The Master still thinks about it fondly.

“What are you planning?” the Doctor asks, but it’s not as forceful as he’d probably like, and is undercut a bit by the big, sad eyes.

“I never actually said I was up to anything. You just assumed.”

“What?”

“But,” the Master continues. “Now that we’re together, and alone…” he trails off as he reaches up to slide the Doctor’s tie out from his jacket. He takes a handful of steps back, using the tie like a lead to pull the Doctor after him.

He’s decided on the desk.

The Doctor grabs at the tie, halting their momentum, but he doesn’t try to pull it out of the Master’s grip.

“What are you-?” What are you doing? What do you mean-?”

“Really, Doctor, was me pushing you up against the wall and sticking my tongue down your throat not clear enough?” The Doctor scowls at him, and the Master ignores it. “I’m here because I would really like to fuck you.”

He’s expecting the shocked, scandalised silence, but he hadn’t even hoped to expect the way the Doctor’s breath catches at the declaration. The way his pupils dilate, the bob of his throat as he swallows noticeably. He even bites into his bottom lip, and it’s almost too much.

“No.” The Doctor shakes his head, but he still doesn’t try to pull his tie loose. “We can’t- You can’t- We shouldn’t- _You were dead!_ ”

“And now I’m clearly not, try and keep up.” The Master tugs on the tie and the Doctor’s hand falls limply back down to his side. “Would it make it easier for you if I was up to something? If there was some nefarious plan that you had to stop or distract me from? If you had an acceptable excuse to get on your knees and start begging me? Because I can give you one if you really want.”

The Doctor shakes his head again, and the Master gets the impression that he’s not entirely sure what he’s saying no to.

He takes another step back, and another, the Doctor following along, until the edge of the desk is pressing into his back. He lets go of the long end of the Doctor’s tie to start pulling at the knot, tugging to let the length of it slither from around his neck to the floor once loose. The Doctor doesn’t spare it a glance, and instead watches the Master raise a hand to his face. His lips part as the Master brushes his thumb across his mouth.

“But please believe when I say, Doctor, you _never_ need an excuse to get on your knees for me, much less beg.” He leans forward to murmur in the Doctor’s ear. “Now, lose the clothes.”

He withdraws, pushing lightly at the Doctor’s chest to get him to step back before planting his hands behind him on the desk and leaning into it. He raises an eyebrow when the Doctor just stands there staring at him, but before he can open his mouth to start goading him further, the Doctor yanks roughly at his coat, pulling it off and dropping it to the floor.

The Master grins as he continues. He loses the suit jacket next, then bends down to remove his shoes and socks. It’s hardly the most traditional striptease he’s ever seen, but it’s the Doctor, and that’s really what matters.

And the Doctor’s aiming for indifference, but he’s still unable to stop himself from glancing over at the Master as he struggles with the buttons on his shirt. Which the Master notices, and he makes sure the Doctor’s looking when he tilts his hips up under the guise of settling further back against the desk.

He waits until the Doctor’s hands fall to his belt, hesitating almost, before he sits up and starts unbuttoning his own suit jacket and pulling at his tie. He lays them over the far end of the desk, followed by his waistcoat, and when he turns back around it’s to see the Doctor standing there, completely naked. He’s staring somewhere over the Master’s shoulder, but his hands are clenching at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them.

“Look at me, Doctor.”

It’s gratifying how quickly those deep brown eyes flick back towards him, and the Master makes sure that his own perusal of the Doctor is as slow and blatant and deliberate as possible. His gaze roves from his eyes and his mouth to the long, wiry limbs, the hips he can’t help but want to just grab, dig his fingers into, and the cock that is clearly more than interested in proceedings. He enjoys immensely the way the Doctor fidgets and honest to god appears to blush under the attention, his cock even twitching as the Master stares at it.

“Come here.”

The Doctor does, stepping within reach so the Master can do precisely what he was thinking about. He grabs him by the hips to pull them together, and the feel of a body, this body, pressed up against him, has his own cock hardening further. The Doctor reaches for him too, hands coming up to cup his face.

“This is new,” he says, brushing his fingers through the hair at his chin.

Back on Earth, his preference for facial hair hadn’t really fitted with the mask he’d created for Harold Saxon, but freed of that constraint, he’d recently found himself falling into old habits, and, well, he’d still liked the look. Why mess with what works. And he’s not sure exactly what the Doctor thinks about it, but he’s hardly going to take styling advice from the likes of him, even if his current body isn’t doing too bad a job with all the tight suits.

But it’s not just the beard that changed. He knows he’s looking older than the last time the Doctor saw him, and he wonders what he’s making of that. Wonders what blanks the Doctor’s filling in as he looks at him. He’s starting to get that slightly sappy look in his eyes again as his fingers trail over his cheeks, and while that’s normally half the appeal of the Doctor, it’s not really what the Master is in the mood for right now.

To get things back on track he slides a hand from the Doctor’s hip down to his arse, grabbing, digging his fingers into the flesh in a way that has the Doctor moaning and thrusting his hips forward. He hisses when the movement has his cock brushing against the Master’s clothing.

The Master feels the fingers on his face tighten moments before the Doctor uses his hold to bring their mouths back together. He lets the Doctor’s tongue slip past his teeth, but in return slides a finger between his cheeks, dragging along the crease and over his hole.

The Doctor shakes, moaning again into his mouth. He falls into him, either on purpose or by accident, pushing him further against the desk, and the Master allows him to bend him back for a handful of breathes before pulling away and spinning them around.

He ignores the Doctor’s exasperated, if breathless “Really?”, to consider how he wants him. Whether he wants to push him down, bend him over the desk and fuck into him from behind. Or if he wants him on his back, looking up at him, those long legs wrapped around his waist or over his shoulders or up by his own ears. Both options are more than appealing, but no, he thinks. He wants to look at the Doctor. He wants the Doctor to look at him.

“Up,” he says, waving his fingers at the desk, and the Doctor complies, hopping up to sit at the short edge of the desk. He looks at the Master with amusement that quickly shifts to want as he steps between his legs.

The Master presses two fingers against his chest, not actually pushing, but making it clear what he’s after. The Doctor goes with it, laying back, flinching when his bare skin makes contact with the chilled surface, but settling when the Master keeps his fingers pressed against his sternum.

The Doctor watches as the Master trails his fingers down his stomach, curving at his pelvis across to his hip before taking his thighs in both hands and pushing them further apart, past where it’s comfortable into where the stretch has to hurt. The Doctor exhales loudly through his mouth, and the Master can see the way his hands are trembling, but otherwise, he doesn’t stop him, just lets him spread his legs.

“Stay just like that. Don’t move.” He steps back, allowing himself a moment to really take in the sight. He then circles around to the other side of the desk and starts rummaging around in his jacket pockets for something he can use.

He hadn’t exactly come prepared, and he didn’t make a habit of carrying around lubrication wherever he went, but he does manage to find a small, mostly full vial of oil he remembers swiping a few months back when he’d had to improvise a bomb while locked in someone’s pantry.

Looking up, he sees that the Doctor has indeed done as he’s told, kept his legs spread and open and exactly where the Master put them. He drags a hand over his stomach as he comes back around, smearing the dribbles of pre-come across his skin, his own cock twitching at the sight.

He smooths his hands up and down the Doctor’s thighs, feeling the tension in the muscles as the Doctor fights through the strain of keeping them spread, the embarrassment, his open want, and his apparent willingness to do what the Master tells him. He then slides his hands underneath, pushing the Doctor’s legs up and bending them towards his chest.

“Be a good boy and hold them for me. Nice and high, all the way back, that’s it.”

The Master grins as the Doctor’s arms come up to wrap around the backs of his thighs, pulling them down and leaving himself open. He takes his time removing the vial from his pocket and twisting it open, content to just look, to let the Doctor feel his stare as he holds himself in place, waiting for him.

He pours the oil over his fingers, replacing the cap and setting it to the side before running two fingers lightly over the Doctor’s hole without warning. The Doctor jerks, gasping at the unexpected touch, and his fingers dig into his thighs to stop himself from letting them fall. The Master trails his fingers up, over the sensitive skin, brushing against his balls before ghosting back down.

The Doctor squirms, hips jerking in little movements as the Master touches him. He hears him bite back a whine when he circles a finger around his entrance, pressing more and more firmly until he slips the finger inside. The Doctor makes another lovely noise, and the Master has to bite his own tongue to stop from reacting to just how _tight_ the Doctor is. How perfectly he clenches down on his finger, and how perfect it was going to feel when he did the same to his cock.

His finger is slick enough that it’s easy to slide it in and out. He does it slowly, so that the Doctor can feel all of it.

“How does that feel, Doctor?” he asks, pressing against the muscles wrapped around his finger. “Does it feel good to have something inside of you? I’m sure it does.”

He leans forward to peer between the Doctor’s legs and sees that he’s got his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lip between his teeth. Pulling his finger out, he adds another, pushing in just as slow, but unrelenting until he has them both buried inside the Doctor, who thumps his head back against the desk.

The Master keeps fucking his fingers in and out. He keeps a steady pace, twisting them, curling them, spreading them, never stopping. The Doctor’s position robs him of any leverage, but that doesn’t stop him trying to push himself down onto the fingers as much as he can.

He loses his grip on his right leg when the Master presses in a third finger. It slips, but the Master catches it and throws it over his shoulder without pausing the movement of his hand. The Doctor moans at the stretch in his leg, or maybe at the extra finger, his now freed hand clutching at the edge of the desk, knuckles turning white.

“What do you want?” the Master asks, twisting and curling his fingers in search of the Doctor’s prostate.

“More, please. Please, I can’t-” He cuts himself off with a gasp when the Master finds what he’s looking for. “Master.”

The Master pulls his fingers out, careful to move just as slowly as he has been. He laughs at the Doctor’s whine as he does so, and at the way his heel digs into his back, but it’s an indulgent laugh. The Doctor wants him, and that, in turn, is exactly what _he_ wants.

With the Doctor’s leg still balanced on his shoulder, the Master reaches down to his belt, making quick work of it and the fastenings of his trousers. He hisses at the touch of his hand on his cock as he pulls it out, nudging his underwear down far enough to free it. He’s been hard for a while now, really from the moment he’d pushed the Doctor up against the door, and it’s easy to start stroking himself with all the pre-come that’s leaked from the tip.

He presses his hand to the Doctor’s arse, spreading his cheek so that he can properly see his hole, which looks wet and red and incredibly inviting. He brushes his thumb over it, before letting go and reaching again for the oil so he can properly slick his cock.

The Master watches the leg the Doctor still holds up shake, and as he steps in, he encourages him to let go and wrap it around his waist instead. Hips flush between the Doctor’s legs, he drags the head of his cock over his hole, reaching around the leg on his shoulder to grip at his waist.

“Please,” the Doctor says, and the Master might be a monster, but even he has trouble denying such a request.

He slides in as slowly as his fingers had, though this time it’s as much for his own fragile sense of control as it had been about tormenting the Doctor. He swears in some long-dead language that even he can barely speak anymore, because he was right, the Doctor is tight, and hot, and perfect.

It’s been so long. Too long.

The Doctor reaches for the hand at his waist, fingers bitting into the Master’s arm while raising the other to his mouth, teeth digging into the meat of his hand in order to muffle the sounds spilling out of him. The Master lets him, and concentrates instead on the feel of the Doctor around him as he pushes all the way in.

He closes his eyes, brings his other hand to the Doctor’s waist as well, holding him, holding on. The Doctor’s skin beneath his hands is slick with sweat, warm, but not the blazing, almost scalding heat of a human. Even where he’s inside the Doctor, where he’s wrapped almost impossibly tight around him, he’s hot, but not burning, not the way Lucy sometimes was, or any partner he’s had in the past. He’s missed the touch, the feel of his own kind. Of this one in particular.

Opening his eyes, the Master slides out of the Doctor just as slowly as he had slid in. He leaves the head of his cock inside and looks down to stare at where the Doctor’s body stretches around him. He digs his fingers into the Doctor’s waist, picturing the marks that will surely bloom. He gives another slow, shallow thrust, revelling simply in having the Doctor under him, feeling the squeezing of him around his cock, letting the scent of him, the sounds he’s making, fill his senses.

A heel digs into his back, and he laughs at the Doctor’s attempt to get him moving.

“If you want something, Doctor, you’ll have to ask for it.”

The Doctor’s hand falls away from his face and he glares up at him, but the Master can see clearly the embarrassment and stubbornness warring with the arousal. He can see the flush spread across his chest, how blown his pupils are, how much he’s leaking all over himself. The Doctor has a little more leverage than before, but not near enough to properly fuck himself. It’s the Master who decides how much he gets.

“Please,” the Doctor says, need winning out. “More, Master. Please.”

The Master shows his teeth. “Of course. You only had to ask.” He withdraws completely before pushing back in faster, as deep as he can. The Doctor moans, so he does it again. And again. And again, faster and harsher with each thrust. The Doctor arches into it, head thrown back and hands grasping at any part of him that he can reach.

He’ll admit that he’s fantasised about a scenario like this before, about having the Doctor pretty much exactly this way. Thoughts of fucking the Doctor over his desk, however it came about, while all those annoying humans went about their business on the other side of the door had been an excellent distraction from all the paperwork he’d been saddled with as Harold Saxon.

The Master lifts the Doctor’s leg off his shoulder, helping him to wrap it around his hip like the other. He feels the Doctor’s ankles lock behind his back, and the change of position gives him space to lean down and plant his hands either side of him. He thrusts forward, finding that he can go deeper, put more power behind it like this, and the Doctor seems to approve if the way he clenches down on him is any indication.

A part of the Master hates how well they fit together.

The Doctor’s arms come up to wrap around him, pulling him down. He still lacks the leverage to push himself onto the Master’s cock, but he’s able to hold him in place, a hand finding its way into his hair, the other sliding over his shoulder as the Doctor pulls them together. The Doctor’s cock ends up caught between them, and the Master feels it brushing against his stomach as he moves.

Each moan, each gasp the Doctor lets loose is deafening in his ears. This close he can see every flutter of those long eyelashes, could count every freckle if he wanted to. The Doctor’s mouth, so red, is right there, sometimes open, sometimes with lips caught between teeth, and the Master doesn’t know what to do, where to start, what he wants more. All he can do is stare and breathe and drive himself into the Doctor’s body over and over.

And the Doctor is looking at him right back. Clinging to him. Eyes, when they’re open, wide and staring at him like he wants him just as much. Like he’s taking in every bit of the Master too. Like he loves him.

The Master has to bite his tongue until he tastes blood because it’s better than the alternative. Better than letting slip every pathetic and embarrassing thought running through his head.

_I miss you. I want you. I don’t know what I am without you and I hate it because you keep leaving me behind._

_You leave and you run and that’s all you ever do. You chose me and then you left me, and I don’t know how to make you stay. You don’t know that we’re not the last ones left anymore, but once you do, I won’t even have that hold on you._

_Pick me. Love me. Look at me. Please._

And it’s not just that the very thought of saying any of that out loud makes him sick to the stomach. It’s that the Doctor _will_ choose him. He has wept over his corpse, been willing to leave his human pets behind, and soon enough he’s going to ask him to leave with him, to travel and see the universe with him as a partner, an equal. He’s going to choose him, save him, when the right, the smartest, the most logical choice would have been to kill him. The Doctor is going to choose him.

But it’s not enough, it’s never enough, because the Master knows it can’t last. It won’t last. It _hasn’t_ lasted, because the Doctor is going to walk away again. He’s going to leave him on Gallifrey, abandon him, dismiss him alongside the Daleks and the Cybermen and all his other enemies, as if the Master had never been more than that, than them.

It never lasts. It never fucking lasts.

The Doctor pulls his head down, brings their mouths together before the Master can stop him. He makes a muffled noise of concern when he encounters the sharp taste of blood, but he licks into the Master’s mouth all the same. And the Master wants to be angrier, wants to rage and claw and rend because it hurts less than thinking about how god damn fleeting this all is, but the brush of the Doctor’s tongue against his, against his lips, his teeth, the taste of his blood and the Doctor all in one, has him shaking, moaning into the Doctor’s mouth and pushing into his hands.

The Doctor clenches down as he slides out of him, and the Master likes to think it’s because he wants to keep him there, keep him inside. The Doctor digs his nails into his shoulder when he thrusts back in. He bites the Doctors tongue, and then it’s their blood together that they’re tasting. Fingers pull sharply at his hair, but they don’t pull him away.

More than anything, the Master wants to leave marks the Doctor won’t ever be able to erase. Even after this body is gone, even after he regenerates, the Master wants to be there. In there, with him, a part of the Doctor that he’ll never be rid of. The Doctor did it to him millennia ago. Crawled inside and ruined him in a way he’ll never be free of, and it’s not fair that only one of them feels bound.

“Master,” the Doctor breathes when he finally pulls away.

He looks down to see blood on the Doctor’s teeth, on his lips, and the sight has him swearing again. The Doctor’s legs, his arms, tighten around him, and the Master feels him try and thrust up, pushing as much as he can between the planes of the Master’s stomach above him, and the cock in his arse.

“Please,” he begs, and even that one word has the Master fucking into him on reflex. “I’m so close. Please, Master.”

He is, the Master can feel the wetness leaking from his cock between them, and he’s sure, in that moment, that not only is the Doctor close, but that he’s going to be able to make him come without laying a single finger on his cock.

“I need you. Please. I need- I need-”

The Master grabs the Doctor’s waist again, pulling him down onto his cock as he thrusts into him hard. He lets the Doctor take his weight, pressing him into the desk as he drops his head to drag his mouth, the scratch of his beard, across his chest. He flicks his tongue over a nipple, and does it again when the Doctor lets out a whine. He bites lightly at the Doctor’s pectoral, and then a little harder as he moves across to the other side.

His hands keep digging into the Doctor’s waist, fingers pressing in deep, and there’s no way he’s not leaving bruises. They’re going to be a bit hard to explain away, but the Master can’t find it in himself to care about it at the moment.

The Doctor is keeping up a constant stream desperate, pleading noises. A few words, in half a dozen different languages, including their own, but mostly just a mess of whines and gasps and moans that the Master could happily listen to forever.

He feels his own climax fast approaching and starts pushing harder and faster in order to get the Doctor there first. He runs his tongue up to the Doctor’s neck, letting him feel the slightest hint of teeth at the column of his throat. The Doctor tilts his neck into it, basically offering it up, and the Master takes the invitation gladly, sinking his teeth in. He doesn’t break the skin, but it’s enough for him to feel the Doctor’s throat between his teeth. And the Doctor himself hardly seem to mind.

“Come on, Doctor,” he murmurs into his throat, soothing the imprint of his teeth with his tongue. “Come on, come for me. You can do it. Come. Come for me. Do it.”

The Doctor gasps wordlessly, arching up and clenching around him. The Master feels him spill between them, the warm splash of release covering both their stomachs. His legs, still locked tight around his waist, shake, squeezing hard enough to hurt, and loosening only as the Doctor starts coming down, body falling limp.

The feel of the Doctor around him, the pleasure radiating off him that’s almost overwhelming in its intensity, sends the Master quickly over the same edge. He presses his face into the Doctor’s shoulder, muffling his shout as he comes, buried as deep as he can be inside the Doctor.

The Doctor’s arms fall weakly from around him, his legs held up only by the locking at the ankles and the likely stiffness of having been in that position so long. The Master feels the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath him as he tries to catch his own breath. His legs feel shaky, and the Doctor lets out a huff when he shifts his weight away from them and more fully onto the desk. He doesn’t complain though, and after a few moments the Master feels fingers brush lightly over his hand where he’s still loosely holding the Doctor’s waist.

He knows he’s going to have to erase the Doctor’s memories of this encounter. He could twist it just enough to have the Doctor remember it all as nothing but a dream, or install temporary blocks that would last until their next meeting, but ultimately, the Doctor can’t know he’s alive before he finds him on Earth. The Master’s all for doing as he pleases with the Laws of Time, but the Doctor knowing he’s alive before he’s resurrected could cause all sorts of trouble for him personally.

For the moment though, he just lays there, head resting on the Doctor’s chest, listening to his hearts beating beneath his ear. He lays there and pretends and lets himself enjoy having the Doctor there, under him, touching him. Not to mention, the satisfaction of an excellent orgasm.

He has time before he has to deal with anything else. He has time before he has to start worrying about the outside universe again. He even probably has time to go again.

Two hours before the Doctor had to meet up with his human. Plenty of time.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://countessrivers.tumblr.com/).


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